


Clutching at Straws

by Im_The_Doctor (Bofur1)



Series: The Pacemakers [27]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Emotionally Repressed, Flashbacks, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Military Backstory, Missions Gone Wrong, Mnemosurgery, Multi, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Panic Attacks, Past Character Death, Post-Battle, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prisoner of War, Rescue Missions, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 16:09:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4967497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Im_The_Doctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>You don't need water to feel like you're drowning, do you?</em>
</p><p>When a member of the secondary Minibot team gets trapped at the very bottom of an ocean trench, it brings up some traumatic memories. Cybertronians can't drown in water, but oil is an entirely different story...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clutching at Straws

**Author's Note:**

> Pace - A company or herd of mules; in my headcanon, a family of Minibots; also a traditional expectation and an honor among Minibots who form one
> 
> One - the first Minibot to agree to join the proposer's pace

Warpath’s optics flickered online abruptly and he flailed, his reaction time much slower than usual. Where was his handheld blaster? All he knew was that it wasn’t in his hand any longer, so he sent power to the frame cannon. The comforting whine of the weapon was muted and then it abruptly computed: he was underwater.

 _Oh no. No, no, no, no_.

He remembered now: the battle with the Decepticons had been brutal, but both the Primary and Secondary paces were on the mission; their thick armor had been the best-suited to stand the assault. Warpath strained his CPU, trying to piece together the rest even as his aching helm protested. They had been there to retrieve something, rescue some _one_ from the Cons…

_“I can’t swim, Warp’!”_

Warpath cycled water through his vents harshly, spewing out bubbles in an attempt to tamp down his anxiety. He had been _so_ close to accepting that memory! Frantically he tried to focus on something other than the liquid world surrounding him.

How had he gotten here? Rescue mission…Cons…Blitzwing and Ramjet had tag-teamed him, slamming into him with the simultaneous force of a…Warpath wasn’t sure what to compare it to; all he recalled afterward was open air, then sinking down into water and blackness.

Warpath cast his gaze upward, recalibrating his optics to nearly three times the magnification. Only then could he see the surface of the water. He must be in one of the ocean trenches Seaspray occasionally spoke of.

Trenches…

 _No_. Warpath clung to the trench wall, using it to pull himself to his feet, only to be downed again by searing pain through both the hip and foot of his left leg. As soon as he settled back onto the sandy floor, he examined his hip, gurgling in dismay when he noticed the rotator cup sitting at an unwieldy angle. Primus, it must have been some slam he’d taken if he’d actually _dislocated_ something. He knew right then he wouldn’t be able to stand, much less swim all the way to the surface, but he scanned his foot anyway, finding an impressive tear in the padding of his tread. He looked away as soon as he registered its presence, but it was no use by then.

_Everything was the same throughout this entire city-state: hazy gray smoke and dead frames mangled by shrapnel or half-melted by acid, marked by the smell of oil, ashes, and energon. The only ones left alive to scream were the Stormrunners, the last standing military squadron._

_Warpath had to put it all out of his mind, focus on the objective of their mission: the fellow Stormrunner they had come to extract from enemy territory, who was currently hanging from his arm._

_“They picked my processor, did—did somethin’ selective to my memory. I can’t swim, Warp’! I don’t remember how!” Influx burst out, his feet pedaling air above the expanse of oil below them. Warpath glanced quickly at Influx’s fingers, digging into the tread on his right arm. Almost effortlessly he compartmentalized his panic. He and the rest of his team had just rescued Influx; there wasn’t a chance he was losing him now to a splash in their people’s favorite bath._

_“Don’t FWASSH! let go then, buddy!” he ordered at last, smiling encouragingly even though Influx couldn’t see it behind his battle mask. “I’m pulling you up—”_

_A cannon fired from across the pool of oil, just one shot. One lucky, impossible shot. The acid burned through his tread faster than Warpath could even contract his vents to scream in pain. Influx did it for him—the last favor he ever did. Warpath scrambled back in horror, powering his own chassis cannon and firing blindly at the Decepticon on the opposite platform until it sank in that the culprit had fled as soon as his acid had struck._

The noise eventually died down and Warpath trembled in the loss of his adrenaline.

He didn’t recognize this area of his trench. In fact, it wasn’t _remotely_ familiar to the area where he’d awoken. How far had he traveled? How long was the flashback? Helplessly he scanned the water, finding it blurred with energy matching his own cannon’s signature. How many times had he fired at nothing? Shakily he checked his energy level, finding it at an alarming 20% below normal. By Minibot stats, dangerously close to hospitalization.

Dazed, he sank down onto his side in the sand, curling his frame up small and tight, staring at a point on the opposite wall of the trench to settle himself.

 _Not there. Earth. Beachcomber’s earth. Water. Seaspray’s water. Focus: Seaspray. Beachcomber. Friends. Pace-mates. Home…Want home_.

Everything was silent and still, aside from bubbles leaving his vents, dancing upward where he probably couldn’t reach, but he didn’t have the energy to even try.

—

“…Is he going to be okay?”

“You worry about yourself, Seaspray! Going back out there so soon after your rescue was the riskiest thing you could do!”

 _Seaspray?_ Warpath latched onto the name, trying to shift and make his presence known.

“Doc, he needed me. None of our pace-mates know the ocean like I do.”

Oh, he was the subject of the conversation. He coughed, trying to speak up and agree with Seaspray’s last words, when Ratchet interrupted.

“Warpath? Keep still. You’re still regaining your energy.”

Warpath peered blearily up at the medic, who was quickly re-maneuvered so Seaspray took his place.

“You’re…okay,” Warpath managed.

“Are _you?_ ” Seaspray asked anxiously. “Our pace was out looking for you for almost a day. I found you at the bottom of an ocean trench.”

Warpath tensed upon remembering the sensation of the water closing in all around him. The discomfort of the memory curled around his spark, waiting to stretch and seize him again, and he demanded hastily, “Where’re they now?”

“I suppose they’re going to barge in here sooner or later anyway,” Ratchet sighed, moving and unlocking the door. Powerglide appeared in an instant.

“Took you long enough!” he complained. “What’s the news?”

“I’ll let him tell you,” Ratchet replied, stepping aside as the leader of the Secondary pace led his entourage past at a scramble.

“Warp’, you’re just fine!” Beachcomber exclaimed in relief, his smile faltering when Warpath abruptly reached out and seized his arm in a near-denting grip.

“Hey, what’s with you?” Powerglide asked, coming around his other side only to be targeted and captured by the other hand.

“I need you guys,” Warpath stated, his vocals treacherously unsteady. “I need you to be safe.” He wondered fleetingly what sound effect his vocal programming might have used in ordinary circumstances; the energy drain still had some aspects of normality out of sorts. Where on any other day he would probably already be bucking up and feeling better, he was now struggling to fight another bout of recharge. He relaxed as much as he dared without loosening his grip onto the arms he’d caught.

He watched their expressions, tentative and uneasy, and wondered what his own face looked like. Was his panic showing more prominently than his need or was it the other way around?

Powerglide rebooted his vocalizer once and then muttered, “You’re kinda shaky there.”

Warpath glanced down at his hands and realized that he was jarring his leader’s arm, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Venting shallowly, he shrugged.

“VORP! Energy drain,” he explained numbly. The programming was back; that was a sign he was on the right path, but his other systems were still stubbornly trying to shut down.

“Stay,” he pleaded.

“We planned on it,” Beachcomber replied, kindly letting his limb relax under Warpath’s fingers, but the warrior could hear the geologist’s worry. He knew that to them this was a horrible breach of who they knew him to be, but they had to _understand_. He wasn’t sure what he would do if they didn’t.

As if reading his thoughts, Powerglide added, “And by the way, we weren’t the ones MIA.” His tone softened slightly and he put one of his hands over Warpath’s—not necessarily a soothing gesture, more supportive. “I’m pace-leader,” he concluded as he perched awkwardly on the edge of the empty medical berth adjacent. “It’s _my_ job to worry and you are my One, so it's your job not to.”

 _No, worrying_ is _my job_ , Warpath argued silently even as the others took seats nearby as well. _I’ve already gotten someone killed. I’m making sure you’re gonna stay and I’m not gonna let go_.


End file.
